


No Flower left wilted

by CruelisnotMason



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Florist!Shiro, Fluff, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Humor, M/M, Matter of Life and Death, Slice of Life, Small Towns, Virgin Keith (Voltron), florist and mortician au, mortician!Keith, sex near a coffin, why isn't that a tag yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:48:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28718340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CruelisnotMason/pseuds/CruelisnotMason
Summary: Shiro loves life, while Keith loves death.Somehow, they still manage to find each other, when Shiro's flower shop gets a new neighbor.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 112





	No Flower left wilted

**Author's Note:**

> Small warning just to make sure: This fic doesn't feature any character deaths, but death is a (relatively) small topic (as is Shiro's illness). 
> 
> I think that's all! Lemme know if you enjoyed this<3
> 
> (Kudos to [@guineadogs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineaDogs/pseuds/guineaDogs) for beta-ing & offering advice on this!)

It’s March, and for Shiro, that means perfectly normal, _quiet_ time in his flower shop.

In March, the flowers have overcome the hardship of winter. Not that the _Monday Blooms_ isn’t filled with them either way thanks to greenhouses. Spring remains a particularly tough time for flower shops. The cold season rarely brings anyone by for more than a mere couple of flower bulbs, fresh seeds or a simple bouquet for their home.

In addition to that, brides and grooms usually call when planning for their spring weddings, so just like that, the _Monday Blooms_ stays eerily quiet on a March noon.

Shiro doesn’t mind. Admittedly, he’s a bit bored, which turns everything he sees outside of the shop into something more interesting than anything that happens inside of it.

Therefore, every other morning in spring, as soon as he’s done conditioning heaps of bright forsythia, scilla and daphne into clean buckets with fresh water and with cleaning the mess that comes with it, he takes a break outside on the front steps next to the wheelchair ramp, and looks at the street. 

In his busiest season, mid-summer, Shiro never has time for this kind of simple morning ritual, so he fully appreciates being able to make room for a cup of tea and watch the full streets of people on their commute in the morning.

If it _were_ his busiest season, Shiro might not have noticed that a few weeks ago, the empty building next to him was sold. Shiro doesn’t like nosy neighbors himself, yet can’t help his curiosity spike whenever a construction worker or someone in a suit comes by to look at the house. Maybe whoever comes by is his future neighbor, and naturally, Shiro wonders what they’ll be like.

Shiro can only imagine they’d be of the rather ambitious kind. The location is good, but the front of the building looks like straight out of a horror movie. It _would_ look pretty, with a new coat of paint and clean window glasses, Shiro ponders. But instead the exterior is dark, with moldy stucco crumbling to the sidewalk once in a while, when a slight breeze hits. 

Compared to the _Monday Blooms_ it’s almost crude. 

Unlike the haunted house next to it, the _Monday Blooms_ is at the bottom floor of its building, completely coated in white. The luxurious facade adds to the opulent flair, and the flowery decoration Shiro puts up every morning at 7A.M. gives it the last kick. Since he overtook the shop, Shiro worked hard on creating the best first impression for it, and turned it into a home for everyone in the local community to enjoy. If not only for buying flowers, but also to have a quick chat with people from around the area. 

That’s why it seems that, of all people, Shiro is most excited about what the building next door will look like. Deep down, Shiro always hoped someone would buy the building and put the much needed love and work into it that it needs.

And now, it seems like someone is finally doing it.

*

Renovations haven’t started yet— but as Shiro continues watching people come in and out of the building several days a week, he doubts they’ll be far away. 

He starts wondering how they'd change the building, which paint they’d use to cover the ugly moldy exterior, and if it would help brighten up the whole street so Shiro’s shop wasn’t the only anchor in the area.

He also wonders what kind of shop they’d turn the bottom floor into. A gift shop would be nice, or even a store full of handcrafts. Even a coffee shop Shiro would welcome, more for a good afternoon snack than an actual cup— but who knows, maybe the roast is good and Shiro will become a regular coffee drinker. Shiro won’t pass up opportunities before they haven’t even offered themselves. 

In reality, things can’t happen for him quickly enough. Luckily, he gets a formal letter about the upcoming constructions next door which soothes in steadily growing curiosity; but then, for several weeks, there’s nothing new in sight.

*

One day, Shiro's busy helping Grandma Gunderson. She is a sprightly and strict-looking elderly woman, who spends half an hour trying to choose a bouquet for her daughter’s birthday. Even the helpful input from her daughter-in-law— a young, chubby woman with black hair, in a wheelchair with decorated flower-pattern— isn't enough. It only promises to get harder, as the sudden construction work from next door disrupts the silence of the flower shop.

Grandma Gunderson looks hardly as amused as her daughter-in-law, grinning at Shiro’s poor attempts at trying to speak over the noise.

“Uh. It'll be a minute, ma’am,” he mutters, positive neither Grandma nor daughter-in-law heard him over the noise, dashes to the front door, almost slipping on a petal.

As soon as the doors are closed, the noise is banished aside from the dull sound of drilling right on the sidewalk. 

Shiro throws a quick look outside and sees a disgruntled, new figure that he’s never seen before. The man watches with folded arms in front of his chest. He looks like a tidied version of the building in front of him, tousled black hair and a striking sharp cut scar on his cheek, which makes for a curious impression.

“Young man,” Grandma Gunderson calls impatiently from behind, unaware of whatever Shiro's watching. “I don’t have all day!”

Shiro breaks his gaze away from the figure outside, and turns his back to the hustle inside.

“Coming, ma’am,” he replies and hurries back, glad he doesn’t slip this time. When Grandma Gunderson finally gets the help she needs to decide on a rather modest bouquet with coral wrapping and a bunch of freshly cut peonies, Shiro gives her a red rose as an apology.

“This won’t get you anywhere with me,” she decides, but her daughter-in-law holds her belly from laughing, which gives Shiro a glint of hope that neither her nor grandma will stay mad for long.

They are early visitors on a Friday. The day after will be the only day a week that Shiro won’t work at the opened shop, and Sunday’s closed anyway. When Shiro closes up in the early afternoon, the man he saw earlier is gone, and with him the construction workers. They closed the sidewalk again— thank god, the racket from today won’t be a recurrence— but the exterior is still the same old.

Maybe they’ll paint it blue, Shiro thinks as he pulls the grid down. 

Or maybe a pretty creme.

*

On Monday, the new facade directly catches Shiro’s eye on his way to work.

He only believes it when he stands right in front of it: construction must have progressed far enough for them to actually repaint the exterior. 

Shiro can’t help but bark out a laugh at 7 in the morning, with barely a jogger around on the streets.

Right in front of him, there's the same building he passes by twice a day; right before work, and a second time after. 

It's looking polished now, different from before. They did good work on the exterior, but one thing really turned out different from Shiro's expectations. 

Its outside is an even darker pitch-black than before.

*

A week passes by and no one visits the newly renovated building. Shiro sells house plants to lonely single men, with short or long hair, and a bunch of seeds to elders preparing for a summer harvest early.

With Shiro's attention circling back to his own shop, his workout routine, and his sole companion, an old and soft white cat that stays at home and loves to nap all day, he almost forgets about the black building next door. 

That is, until he sees next-door's new owner walking across the street.

Shiro is in the middle of selling today’s most economical bouquet to a young girl who plans to ask out another girl, as he spots him outside. The man appears to be just like he did the first time; serious, a little pale, and face framed by a tousle of black curls. Again, he wears a dark, fitted suit perfectly matching the new coat of paint next door.

“Oof,” the customer in front of Shiro says as she takes the bouquet of Daisies. It’s wrapped in a beautiful persian blue paper with a white ribbon, and Shiro thinks even though it’s affordable— not cheap— it’s one of the prettiest he’s ever done. He takes the money from the girl with brown skin, bouncy curls and cheeky freckles— a first-time customer— and throws another look at the man outside. 

“He’s creepy.” The girl in front of Shiro grimaces. He snorts.

“Because he’s dressing completely in black?” he challenges her with a raised eyebrow and hands her his change.

“He never smiles,” the girl corrects. “And looks straight-up like a murderer,” she mutters under her breath.

_So she must know him from around the neighborhood_. Shiro closes the register.

They both— Shiro and the girl— look outside once again, right in time to see the man grin. The girl groans again while turning around, but Shiro’s eyes can’t break away from the sight quick enough to bid her goodbye. 

The man does indeed look a little too serious, all in black; maybe creepy to some— that much Shiro can acknowledge. But other than that, he’s got a beautiful smile.

The girl passes the man with the bouquet clutched tightly in her hand, not giving the man another look. The man doesn’t seem to even notice her, too much in thought as he steps into the building next to the flower shop, leaving Shiro and his curiosity on the doorsteps.

Shiro doesn’t see the man for another week.

*

Personally, Shiro doesn’t like to pry. 

Shiro always lived in a smaller neighborhood, and he experienced how gossip travels through the hands of everyone faster than a lightning bolt. Yet Shiro’s interest in the mysterious man from next door turns Shiro into the kind of neighbor he doesn’t like at all; asking customers if they know what the shop next door is supposed to be, or if they know _him_. He does it only once or twice, because even Shiro doesn’t forget his manners about an interest in an, admittedly, good-looking dude.

Still, he can’t help looking every day and morning if someone further decorated the facade, or hung a sign, or if any products appeared in the windows to indicate what kind of shop it is. But the facade stays dark and blank just like the man’s appearance, so Shiro has to be content with that.

Shiro’s lived in the neighborhood long enough to know that everything here tends to progress in slow steps. Life and work in a neighborhood usually changes directions only temporarily, like a blade of grass in the wind.

So it’s particularly surprising when, a week later, seemingly out of the blue, several orders for plain bouquets of tulips, calla lilies, petunias, and delphiniums reach Shiro. That alone isn’t anything completely out of the ordinary, but all of the flower orders spot one identical, modest color.

_White_.

The mystery grows, because even though Shiro had flower orders for one or two funerals, the sheer amount that’s ordered at his store makes him worry for why so suddenly everyone around him seems to be dying.

Thankfully, the following week the perpetrator behind all the flower orders shows up in his shop. 

Shiro doesn’t hear the doorbell as he’s occupied holding a bouquet in one hand, the phone sandwiched between his ear and shoulder, as he fumbles for a pen with his prosthesis to write down the customer’s order. Obviously, they— a music teacher Shiro took piano lessons from for a year until they both realized Shiro doesn’t have an inch of musical talent— didn’t know they chose the worst possible moment to call. 

Shiro writes down the order for their teenage son’s bar mitzvah while juggling the bouquet and the phone, completely oblivious to the young man that has arrived at his counter. 

Only when the order is written down, the phone call ends, with the bouquet sitting finished on Shiro’s worktable. Shiro turns around, startling at the person standing and waiting to be noticed.

“Oh!” Shiro exclaims, feeling all kinds of emotions simultaneously. He quickly untangles himself from the reel of scarlet ribbon wrapped around his leg, stumbles over wrapping paper scattered over the floor, and holds himself up at the counter desk as soon as he reaches it.

For a painstakingly long moment, Shiro and the man from next door simply stare at each other, and Shiro wonders which of them feels more awkward. Then the man, obviously in a full black suit, cracks a soft smile.

“Keith,” the man says in a single syllable, and reaches his hand over the counter before he finds his words again. “Keith Kogane. Next door neighbor.”

_No full sentences, huh,_ Shiro notices, corners of his mouth pulling up. He takes the hand quicker than his brain can process the info, thankful that his muscle memory for first meetings is strong enough to feign knowing how _to human_.

“Shiro,” he breathes out, as he watches Keith’s hand wrap around the cool metal of his hand. It’s distinctly smaller, with long, elegant fingers. Staring at Keith’s hands for far too long, Shiro grows increasingly embarrassed about his own inability to remember words.

“I mean, Takashi Shirogane, but you can call me Shiro. Everybody around here does.”

They both still hold hands, and it’s— hands down— the weirdest first meeting Shiro ever experienced. Or, not weird, but intense for sure. 

At least, they are _both_ like that.

As Keith deems the handshake to be over, he pulls back. Shiro’s mildly mortified about the small gasp he utters at the loss of contact, but Keith doesn’t seem to notice. If he does, he doesn’t let on, at least.

“I came over to introduce myself, and,” Keith starts the conversation, hands in his pocket. “Since I moved the business here, I started recommending your flower shop, but I didn’t stop to think I should have spoken to you first.”

Shiro’s too mesmerized by the fact that Keith wears his hair in a low ponytail today to even consider being _unhappy_ about more customers. It makes him look younger— he already looks far younger than Shiro expected when only seeing him from a distance— and shows his long neck. It’s sexy.

“Uh,” Shiro utters, eyes shifting from Keith’s cute earlobe to his eyes. “Actually, it’s fine. It brought good business to my place. If anything, I should thank you.”

The corners of Keith’s mouth quirk up, and Shiro catches himself thinking how good a smile looks on his face. 

“I’m glad.” A long exhale. “I didn’t wanna cause trouble and make you busier than you have the capacity for.”

Shiro immediately feels his cheeks glow, knowing that after seeing that moment just now, Keith must assume he cannot do everything at once... “No, no,” Shiro insists. He supports his weight with both hands on the counter, rocking from his heels to his toes and once back, “that just now, it happens at least once a day. If I weren’t alone at the shop, I wouldn’t have to take the phone while I pack bouquets and look silly to potential customers.”

Keith nods diligently. “Alright. So I’ll keep offering your contact, if that’s alright with you?”

“Yes!” Shiro smiles. “Thank you a lot, uh. Keith.”

“Gotta go back now. Nice to meet you, Shiro.” With another short nod and a shy smile, Keith turns around and walks out of the door, leaving Shiro too baffled to reply anything.

Only when Keith’s out the door, Shiro realizes that he didn’t ask what Keith is selling, leaving the next door shop to remain a mystery.

*

Shiro settles on asking Keith the next time he meets him if only to find a reason to talk to him. But actually finding a moment where Keith is outside and within reach while Shiro’s hands are unoccupied turns out to be a nearly impossible challenge. 

That’s why one day, Keith’s call comes like a welcome bolt from the blue.

“K-Keith,” Shiro stutters when he recognizes the voice on the other end. It’s astonishing how quickly Shiro can turn into a stammering teen despite being in his late 30s.

Keith doesn’t hesitate a second before he gets to the point. “I’m ordering food for lunch in a minute, do you want some too?”

“Oh.”

A few moments of silence pass as Shiro tries to process several thoughts at once. Keith wants to order lunch. _Keith wants to eat lunch with him?_ He especially called Shiro to get lunch with Shiro—

“Uhm,” Keith stalls. “I’m ordering Mexican, but if you don’t like—”

Shiro jolts so hard he almost knocks a vase over. “No!” He catches the vase in time and puts it down. “I’d love to! Thanks for thinking of me, Keith. That’s very considerate of you.”

Keith stays quiet for a moment. “I’ll send you the menu and bring your order when they’ve arrived.” 

Before Shiro can say as much as thanks, the phone clicks. Shiro stares into the void, wondering what just happened. His phone pings another time, with a menu link attached. Shiro decides on a black bean burrito, and sends a message right back. 

A minute later, Keith sends a delivery confirmation with an estimated time frame, so Shiro gets back to work with a set alarm, wondering if he should tidy the table in the back to make space for them both later.

Twenty minutes later, Shiro’s alarm goes off, but Keith hasn’t called or brought the food yet. Shiro shrugs it off, until another twenty minutes pass by, and then another ten minutes, and his stomach starts growling.

He calls Keith back.

“Hey, I wondered where you are,” Shiro says. Unlike the bustle in the background of Shiro’s shop, there’s no background noise on Keith’s side. 

“Oh,” Keith utters, pauses a second— Shiro imagines him taking a look at his watch— before he replies. “I’ve completely forgotten the time, and they didn’t ring the bell or anything. I think they must have delivered it to the front desk. Sorry.”

“Ah.” Shiro fumbles with a fresh daisy, sticking too far out of a bouquet. “No worries. Will you come over?”

“Yes!” Keith says. “Let me just finish up, uh, my current client. I’ve got him on my table.”

“Current client? What’s he doing on your table?”

For some reason, Shiro imagines a suited old man throwing a tantrum because the price of a product he wanted was too high. 

In hindsight, he’s glad he didn’t laugh, because there’s a heavy pause before Keith’s explanation. “Well, I don’t know, Shiro.” He scoffs. “Being dead, I guess.”

“Oh.” Shiro breathes, and the mystery of Keith’s occupation finally clears.

When Shiro doesn’t say anything more, Keith says, “see you in a few minutes, then?” and ends the call.

And suddenly the mystery around the dark suits, next door’s building’s exterior and the sudden increase in orders for white roses is solved. 

Keith’s a _mortician_.

*

He doesn’t take long. 

“I’ve got your order,” he greets Shiro. “Sorry for the wait.”

Shiro’s binding a new bouquet, but puts it aside immediately. “Don’t worry,” he says with a smile and wipes his hands on his apron, takes a few steps toward Keith. “Are you staying to eat with me?” he asks.

Keith blinks once, twice, then smiles shyly. “Yeah. If that’s alright?”

“Sure!” Shiro puts a few boxes and buckets out of the way to free the way to the back from any accident risks, then follows Keith to the white metal table there.

“So, a funeral home,” Shiro gets right to the point when they both sit down. “I was waiting for a shop sign to say what you’re selling. That...explains things.”

Keith puts Shiro’s order in front of him and flips open his own delivery box. The contents don’t evaporate that steam anymore, but as Shiro bites into the burrito, it is still decently warm.

“Oh, you didn’t know then,” Keith breathes. “Sorry for being so oblivious earlier.”

“It’s okay,” Shiro waves with his hand. “It was a stupid question.”

Keith takes a spoon full of his tortilla. “No, no. I would have asked too, if it was the other way around and you told me someone lay on your table.” Keith’s brows furrow. “They’d do it for entirely different reasons, I’d assume.”

“Yeah,” Shiro stutters out a laugh. 

The conversation quickly carries away from Keith’s job; aside from things on the surface. The new coat of black that Shiro didn’t expect, if Shiro has any business cards he can leave at Keith’s funeral home to pass on for families who seek for someone to deal with the flower arrangements, and vice-versa for Keith, if he’s got info about his funeral home in return.

“I’ll bring you some pamphlets over tomorrow,” Keith promises at the end of lunch, and disappears before Shiro remembers to pay his part of the bill.

It’s a perfect excuse for a shared lunch to become a recurrence, and when Keith enters the flower shop the next day to bring over classy black-and-white pamphlets with info about his funeral home and services, Shiro immediately reminds him that there’s still a bill open for Shiro to pay.

“Oh,” Keith says. “You know what? Don’t wor—”

“I could pay you back by ordering lunch today,” Shiro quickly interrupts. His heart thrums a thousand miles an hour in his chest, and the relief to see a smile bloom on Keith’s face doesn’t make it any better.

“Yeah!” he agrees quickly, and loud for his usual rather quiet tone. “I just got a call, but I think I’ll be back in an hour. I’m not picky with food, you can choose my order.”

Shiro sees him walk out the flower shop, staring forlorn after him. 

“Love is in the air—” Allura hums a few feet away while picking out orchids from a stand. Shiro only remembers she’s present the moment she starts singing, and immediately tries to hide the mushy feeling he’s harboring inside behind an annoyed grimace.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he deflects. 

Allura grins knowingly, and not without a reason. As one of Shiro’s friends and as a regular customer of the Monday Blooms, she knows him quite well. 

“Oh no,” Allura purrs. “You _do_.”

“Did you know he’s twenty-six?” Shiro counters, as if they were in a discussion, and Shiro needs to win to convince everyone including himself why pursuing Keith is a bad idea. 

Expectedly, Allura shrugs it off. “To me it doesn’t look like it changes his interest in a certain silver fox,” she replies, picking out another orchid. “ _Neither_ of you noticed I was here.”

Shiro wears a grim expression as he takes the pink flowers that Allura hands him, goes to the back and binds the bouquet in the colors he knows she loves; pink, violet, baby blue.

“I don’t think you’ve got that big of an age difference,” Allura calls after him, but Shiro feigns being too busy with the bouquet to hear her. 

“It’s not like you’re forty yet,” he hears her mumble, and ignores that, too.

Shiro doesn’t mind the age gap between him and Keith per se; he just didn’t expect it to be so substantial. He might not be forty yet, but thirty-eight, and yes, in his eyes it seems quite the jump to someone who is only twenty-six.

“Here’s your bouquet,” Shiro says, as soon as he reappears at the check-out. He ignores Allura’s pout vigorously as he hands it to her.

“That conversation isn’t over, Shiro.”

Shiro picks up his phone. “I think it is. If you excuse me, I’ve got to make an order.” 

Allura doesn’t immediately leave, even though Shiro half-turns away. “I wish you fun on your date,” she says pointedly, taking the bouquet and stepping out of the shop.

On Shiro’s cheeks, a faint blush appears.

Art by [TifaSugar](https://twitter.com/Tifa_SugART?s=20)

Lunch dates do become almost a daily recurrence, except for the days that Keith is busy embalming or speaking to friends or family of the decedent. 

Meeting Keith on the regular, means talking about their respective jobs on the regular, and therefore about Keith’s job. 

“Do you ever think about death, Shiro?” Keith asks him completely out of the blue one day. 

Shiro almost drops his chopsticks on the avocado roll he ordered, and splatters a bit of soy sauce on his shirt. The question catapults him back to memories of hospital stays, the medical personnel not hiding their looks of ‘lost cause’, and nights with painful stabs in his chest until the handful of painkillers finally put him to sleep.

“Not more than the average person,” Shiro lies, and picks up his chopsticks.

Shiro feels Keith’s eyes on him, and turns his head back to him after a while. Sometimes looking at Keith makes Shiro feel like the air punches out of his ribcage. He cannot help feeling lost at Keith’s equally soft and sharp features, at the tousle of black hair, and the gentle shy smile he shows Shiro more often than not.

“Does it ever make you feel lonely? Your job, I mean,” Shiro hears himself ask, eyes pinned on Keith, unable to break his gaze away. His and Allura’s conversation replay in his head, for no real reason. It does often, even though Shiro settled on being nice to Keith, and nothing more. Being a good neighbor, and such.

Keith reaches for a summer roll, dips it in soy, and stuffs it into his mouth as he’s thinking. “I’ve been very lonely all my life. When dad died, the loneliest.” He chews just as slow as Shiro does, enjoying every bite. “I’ve never been good with people, and after his death I was worse. If anything, I’ve never felt more alive after starting this job. It connects me to people when I am unable to do so myself.”

Shiro just stares. Just like that, Keith says something so deep and profound that Shiro want to hug him. 

He doesn’t.

“Sorry,” Keith says. “Too much?”

Quickly, Shiro shakes his head. “No. Not at all.” He pushes his plate toward him. “Avocado roll?”

“Thanks,” Keith says, brows a little furrowed. 

They’ve met often enough that Shiro starts to understand even the subtle changes in Keith’s expression.

Shiro bites his lower lip as he watches Keith take the last roll off his plate. “It’s–” he starts and rethinks his wording. “It’s not easy for me to be honest about those things." He shifts his uncertain gaze from the empty plate to Keith. "I don’t like thinking about death. It’s all I’ve ever thought about when I was younger.”

Keith’s eyes shine when they look at Shiro. He nods, understanding. Shiro lets out a long breath, unable to process how hard it was for him to admit.

"I'm not that old, but I'm already terrified of dying." 

Keith nods again, but he doesn't say anything. His gaze is intense as he watches Shiro, but it has something calming. 

"Would you like to see my shop, Shiro?" Keith asks. Shiro can't help the wide eyes and stare he gives him. There's a reason why he hasn't been over at Keith's shop and always offered his own for a place to have lunch.

When he keeps staring at Keith, with words that are unable to leave his mouth on his tongue, Keith's cheeks grow red and his usual confident expression grows uncertain, and a bit panicked. 

"I'm a virgin," Keith blurts, which finally makes the situation completely confusing in a way that Shiro really doesn't know how to handle. His eyes stare holes at the quarter salmon role in front of Keith, as if that could bring the fish back to life. In the background he hears the door bell ring, and wonders if he knows the customer who entered and left again all without trying to get Shiro's attention (and possibly while listening in on their conversation). 

"Sorry," Keith says, face completely red. He looks like there's not much left until he'll bolt right out of the door, with no intention to ever come back again. "That was a weird thing to say." 

"No, no," Shiro calms him. Frankly, he doesn't mind. "I'm glad you trust me that much to tell me, Keith." 

"I just wanted to," Keith starts, as he hides his face behind his hands, "explain how I've used to be afraid of life, just like you are of death." 

"Well," Shiro breathes. "Thanks for that." 

His smile is genuine, and after a while, Keith dares looking between his fingers at Shiro again. He looks gorgeous like that; dark curls tousled in front of his eyes, the blush on his cheeks prominent, and an awkward smile on his lips. He looks so kissable, Shiro thinks. 

After a while, Keith resumes eating the last bits of his salmon roll. 

"So," Keith asks when he's finished, "would you like to come over?" 

Shiro's mind comes to a halt. "Come over where?" he asks.

"The shop," Keith clarifies, and Shiro wants to bite his tongue for his dumb question. His own embarrassment is overwhelming enough to distract himself from Keith's plans. 

"Okay," he says, completely breathless, and stands.

On the way to Keith's shop– within a few seconds or so– Shiro's thoughts start to clear up again. He remembers what they are coming over for, and his heart starts thumping in his chest. 

Personally, he thinks that sometimes confrontation is the best way to overcome one's fear. But now that it's about him and his fear of death, he's not that sure anymore. 

As expected, Keith's funeral home is empty. The eerie silence sits deeper as it does in Shiro's flower shop, which is full of living plants. 

Unlike the exterior, the inside isn't as dark. It's neutral, mostly. 

"We can look at the coffins first," Keith suggests, brushing his hair back to redo his ponytail. 

"Uhha uhh–" Shiro replies, eloquently. 

"Or we don't," Keith says quickly, with a worried look on his face. 

"No." Shiro shakes his head. "Just, uh. Just warn me if there are any dead bodies." 

Keith's mouth quirks up, and he takes Shiro's hand. "There won't be any as of now. I promise." 

They wander through several rooms of the funeral home together. Everything smells suspiciously clean. Keith shows him the viewing room, the embalming chamber and the cremator. Shiro's heart squeezes in his ribcage at the sight of anything. 

Something in him imagines his own body everywhere; in a casket in the viewing chamber, with his veins drained of blood and filled with formaldehyde in the embalming room, or burning inside the cremator. He'd lie, if he'd say it didn't scare him. 

But Keith holds his hand throughout the whole process. 

Finally, they are in a room with one coffin in the middle; much darker than the others. 

"You wanna lie inside?" Keith asks Shiro. 

"What?" Shiro splutters. "Is that even allowed?" 

Shiro feels like there's an unspoken rule that you cannot lie in a coffin when you're not dead. He looks expectantly at Keith, and only then realizes that he's been whispering the whole time, while Keith's voice just stayed the same. 

"I won't call the cops on you, if you do it." Keith's eyes twinkle with his joke. Shiro just can't believe this guy, and can't believe how drawn towards him he feels. 

"Okay," he says, unsure if it won't be a bad idea, "I'll lie in one." 

Keith helps him get into a black and brown coffin, one step after another. When Shiro lies in it, he thinks it's quite comfortable, and Keith standing next to him, his presence makes him less afraid. 

"Don't close the lid," Shiro warns, his throat coarse. Keith nods, and reaches for his hand. 

"You look beautiful," Keith only says, and for some reason it makes Shiro blush. While he's lying in a damn coffin. 

"Well," he coughs. "Does it fit me?" 

Keith's eyes wander down to his feet and up again. Shiro closes his eyes, listens to his own calming heartbeat. 

"Yeah," he hears Keith utter.

Shiro takes a few minutes for himself inside the coffin, thinks of everything and nothing simultaneously. As soon as he wants to get out, Keith eagerly supports and holds onto Shiro even when he's back with both legs on the ground. 

"Thanks," Shiro rasps. 

"Thank you," Keith says in return. He looks at Shiro with a fondness that Shiro has never seen in someone before. 

"I, uh." Shiro stares into Keith's glinting eyes, losing himself in them. Somehow, any word could be a word too much, so instead Shiro simply strokes over Keith's shoulder where he's still holding onto him. His fingers are so close to a few black strands of Keith's hair that he can't help but reach for them. 

"Oh," Keith gasps. 

Shiro's mind is jumbled as he brushes the strands back behind Keith's ear, and when Keith doesn't seem appalled, he strokes through the black hair some more. 

"Is that–" 

"Yeah," Keith breathes before Shiro can even finish his question. 

By craning his neck, Keith smothers his cheek against Shiro's hand, almost cat-like so. Shiro feels the deep red scar there, and does his best effort not to hurt him. He feels the cut through the otherwise smooth skin with fascination, before he plays with Keith's earlobe again. 

In the next moment, Keith's hand is on Shiro's other, guiding him down over Keith's stomach, planting him right before his hip bone. 

"Keith," Shiro breathes, uncertain about how he should read the signal. "Don't you want your– your first time to be a bit more–" 

"A bit more what?" 

"Special?" _Or someone more special_ , Shiro doesn't say. 

That stops Keith. For the first time since they started– started cuddling in the coffin room, Keith really looks at him. Then he turns around in an instant and collects all the graveyard lights he can get, and places them on another table. 

Shiro knows all of this is one of the most bizarre experiences he's ever had, and feels the silliness of it all get to his head. 

But after Keith lights every single light in the room, effectively turning it all into a spooky vampire room in Shiro’s opinion, he turns back to Shiro, and the feeling dissolves. The only thing that stays the same is Shiro's incredible tunnel vision on Keith. 

The red light in Keith's back makes his determined gaze look even more mesmerizing. 

It's what makes Shiro reach for Keith, pull him into his arms and press their noses together. Keith's warm breath hits his mouth, and his heart beats against his chest. 

"Can I—"

"Yes," Keith breathes and tips his head up to finally press their lips together. 

All of it is surreal, but Shiro's focus is hard on making this kiss the best kiss Keith ever had, even though he doesn't even know if it's his first one. Shiro channels all the softness he can manage into the kiss, until Keith takes a breath and Shiro uses that moment to lick into his mouth. 

The way Keith groans goes straight to Shiro's crotch. Keith becomes putty in his hands the longer they kiss, and soon Keith's hand reaches to palm Shiro's clothed dick, then guides Shiro's hand back to his own. 

Shiro's using all of his finesse to palm Keith, and gently take him out. He weighs the dick in his hand, eyes flickering down to look at it, and then just holds him heavy in his palm for a moment. 

Keith looks amazing during all of it; hot, shy, eager, demanding. Shiro wants to give him all he needs.

"The first day I saw you," Keith groans, leaning heavily against Shiro, "in that apron, I–" 

"Did you think about me? In that apron?" Shiro asks smugly, and starts to stroke Keith in well-trained grips, with his thumb returning once in a while to his slit. 

"Yes," Keith confesses, head completely red, "yes. Shiro, I wanted you so bad–" 

"You have me," Shiro coos, and peppers kisses all over Keith's neck.

"I wanted you to do things to me that I've never wanted anyone to do before—" Keith groans against Shiro's lips with a particular delicious stroke. 

"I'll do everything to you. With you," Shiro pants, his own swelling and tight pants getting more noticeable to him with every second. 

"Shiro–" Keith's groan comes high-pitched, together with a stutter of his hips. He grips Shiro's shoulder hard, fingernails digging into the flesh as he comes. 

Shiro let's him ride out the orgasm in his hand, strokes through his hair with the prosthesis. As soon as Keith comes visibly back to his senses, Shiro gives him another slow and dizzying kiss. 

"This _was_ special," Keith says blissfully, pulling a snort from Shiro. 

"It was indeed," he agrees with a smile and another kiss.

*

Autumn arrives out of the blue with greyish skies, heavy clouds and dying leaves. 

Nothing majorly changed, as the neighborhood mostly stays the same. As usual, Keith visits Shiro during lunch time, but on rainy days when the _Monday Blooms_ remains mostly empty, they happily share kisses at the white metal table in the back. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> On what it's like to be a florist [1](https://www.florismart.com/the-florist/the-life-of-a-florist-by-emily-hepworth/) [2](https://www.flowershopnetwork.com/blog/a-look-into-the-life-of-a-florist/)   
> On what it's like to be a mortician [1](https://www.reddit.com/r/morticians/comments/jvw2js/interview_for_college/) [2](https://www.reddit.com/r/morticians/comments/jt9343/radom_thoughts/)
> 
> Adding this on second thought:
> 
> ["The corpses that changed my life" - Caitlin Doughty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OKIyDMaxh4w)  
> [(warning for one graphic header with a skull) Ask A Mortician - YT Channel by Caitlin Doughty](https://www.youtube.com/user/OrderoftheGoodDeath)  
> [Trying out a Hawaiian Eco-Casket - Caitlin Doughty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uVG_gdcXQew)


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